Cold Drink

 

Soda.  Pop.  Cola.   There is no debate here in South Africa about what to call it.  It’s “cold drink.”  Even if it is not cold.  If it fizzes and it’s sweet – it’s “cold drink.”  “Do you want cold drink?”   “Let me buy you cold drink.”  It’s not even “a” cold drink.  It’s an adjective and a noun.  And it’s loved here.  Dearly.  They sell it pretty much everywhere.  All of the neighborhood spaza’s, taxi ranks, and food stands.  And it comes in a lovely original 1 liter inked glass bottle.  No labels to peel.  It generally costs 11 rand (about $1.10) and you get 2 rand back when you return the glass bottle.  The glass bottle and the returning of said bottle has quite a nice feel to it.   Kinda like the ‘50’s – walk to the neighborhood shop, return a bottle and buy a fresh soda (err – cold drink) to share amongst friends.  It’s always shared.

                One day last week I was walking down the dirt road on which I live in one of the small villages in which I live.  A group of school children were yelling and running in the dirt as I approached.  “Annnddrrooow.”  They laughed when they saw me and I expectedly became the focus of attention for just being me.  (A fact of rural South African life that I both love and simply cannot get used to).  This day, however, their interest in me faded a bit quicker than normal.  No “where are you going?  Where are you coming from?”  The children were much too preoccupied on this particular day to concern themselves with the American.  Why?  Cold Drink.

                Someone had bought the group of children a cold drink of orange Fanta.  As I walked past them with my backpack on smiling, I realized that they had whipped up some sort of competitive childhood game.  An innovative one too.  One of the boys had placed the nearly-full Fanta in the dirt road and was standing next to it.  About 30 yards away, 10 or so other children lined up behind a line drawn in the dirt.  They looked like they were about to race and indeed that is just what they would be doing. 

The boy next to the Fanta yelled “Kitima!” (Run!) and the group of 10 children took off blazing fast.  I stopped my walk and simply watched.  One boy’s eyes were as wide and round as golf balls.  He was sprinting.  Mad fast.  And those big eyes were fixed on the open bottle of Fanta.  As he reached the cold drink his body swooped down in a small cloud of dust and he snatched the glass liter bottle in stride paying zero attention to the sand going into the top of the bottle.  He continued to run past the marker where the cold drink had sat and tilted the bottle bottoms-up and gulped the orange syrupy goodness as fast as he could.  The other children continued in pursuit.  As he arched his back to avoid being tagged (while still cradling the bottom-up drink), I realized that the cold drink was both the game and the prize.  When another boy finally tagged him near the fence, he laughed and the ½-filled liter of Fanta returned to its original resting place.  The boy who had enjoyed the cold drink stood proud as the others returned to the starting line.  He would lead the next race.  They were taking turns and loving it and I was changing my mind about how bad soda (err – cold drink) was for young children. 

~ by bernish on December 3, 2008.